


White House AU Snippets

by torakowalski



Category: Stargate Atlantis, West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-01-07
Updated: 2007-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was on the way back from Senior Staff that John noticed the cup of coffee sitting on the table outside his office. It was still hot, little wisps of white steam escaping through the air holes in the lid.</p><p>“Sweet,” he said, picking it up.</p><p>The move Rodney used to knock his hand away from his mouth would have been illegal in most football games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Believe In Things You Can't See

**Author's Note:**

> It isn't necessary to know West Wing canon for this bit. John is Deputy Communications Director (Sam Seaborn's job) and Rodney is... something equally high ranking, that I haven't quite decided on yet. The line about the President's Nobel came from [](http://shrewreader.livejournal.com/profile)[**shrewreader**](http://shrewreader.livejournal.com/) because she rocks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're late," Donna said when he got in. He thought about reminding her that she was _Josh's_ assistant not his, but it hadn't ever worked before so he let it go this time.

"You're late," Donna said when he got in. He thought about reminding her that she was _Josh's_ assistant not his, but it hadn't ever worked before so he let it go this time.

"Sorry," he said instead. "Woke up with the 'flu."

"And made a miraculous recovery on 16th Street ?" she asked archly, trotting along beside him as he walked to his office.

He flashed her a grin. "Something like that." If by 'recovery' she meant mainlining the – mostly in-date – Tylenol and Benadryl that he'd found in his medicine cabinet.

" _John_ ," she wined, putting all the emphasis she could into the one word.

" _Donna_ ," he mimicked.

"Pharmaceuticals are bad for you. It's been documented. Also, wrong way."

He stopped. "What?"

"Yes, PBS did a documentary on the effects of-"

"No. Donna. Why did you say I'm going the wrong way? My office is thataway." If it wasn't, he was totally swearing off anything but camomile tea for life.

She gave him a look that said she was very disappointed in him; he spared a moment to pity Josh for having to put up with this every day. "You're doing that meeting for Toby, remember? Hence me saying you were late. I wasn't being abstract, you know."

John cursed and turned on his heel.

The meeting had started without him. Ed and Larry were at one end of the table and a man who was presumably the infamous Dr Rodney McKay was at the other.

He didn't look all that infamous, John thought, as he peeked through the glass door. Brown suit (dishevelled), white shirt (twisted collar) and dark tie (knot pulled tight and a couple of inches down from his neck as if he'd been tugging on it). He was solid and balding and flushed, with eyes that were far too blue for anyone above the age of six.

Ed and Larry were looking at him with twin expressions of abject terror so John thought he'd better get in there.

"We need six billion," Dr McKay was saying, hands waving for emphasis. "Not five point five, not the measly five you idiots have graciously agreed to, but six. We can't pull miracles out of our asses on thin air and fairy dust." _Fairy dust?_ John thought, eyebrows rising.

"Sorry I'm late," John said, hurriedly riding over whatever McKay was going to say next; he looked the type who could rant for hours. He held out his hand. "John Sheppard."

Dr McKay's own hands flailed uselessly for a second, halted in their eloquence. "Dr Rodney McKay," he said at last, finally getting control of his hands and offering the right one for John to shake. "And I must say that if the White House is rude enough to summon me for a seven am meeting - and not tell me about it until the night before might I add - you could at least have had the decency to be here on time. The red eye from Toronto is no joke, you know."

"You're Canadian?" John asked. "Why are we funding Canadians?"

"You're not." The _idiot_ was implied. "I was visiting my sister. I'm from the NSF doing research in Hawaii. Have you done _any_ preparation at all for this meeting?"

John looked at his notes. He hadn't but Donna had. He had to buy her a hamper or something someday. And find out who the hell his own assistant was and get him slash her fired.

"Hawaii? Nice." John said, taking a seat closer to McKay than Ed or Larry had apparently dared to and sorting through his papers. "You guys must get some awesome surf."

"Oh, God." McKay said through up his hands. "They've sent me a _surfer_? I guess the four hours I spent compiling a PowerPoint presentation when I could have been sleeping were all for nothing."

"Give it a go," John said, amused despite himself. "I'll try to follow along as best I can."

McKay's presentation was not quite as mind numbing as John had been expecting. It turned out he actually had some good ideas rather than simply bringing them the usual whine about lack of funds.

The third time John asked a question, McKay narrowed his eyes. " _Who_ are you?"

"John Sheppard," John said, keeping his voice pleasant and his expression neutral. "We've already met."

This time, McKay's eyes rolled. "I mean, what do you do around here?" _Around here_ , like he wasn't in the Roosevelt room of the fucking White House.

"I write speeches. And in my downtime I listen to Canadians tell me why they need six billion dollars."

McKay glared. "Why didn't they send me Ziegler?"

John grinned and tipped back his chair. "I don't think Toby likes you, Dr McKay."

"Yes, well." McKay tipped his head, apparently conceding that point. "A writer though. They couldn't have sent Lyman? At least he would have understood my argument before arbitrarily dismissing it."

John was enjoying himself but probably baiting scientists wasn't what he got paid to do. "I have a math degree, Doctor; I followed your argument just fine." His dream of flying hadn't shattered until his sophomore year and by then he'd been too stubborn and too angry to change his major. It had been a bitch to get into the Harvard English program with that and everything else hanging over his head, but he'd needed a complete change.

McKay looked a little stunned and, internally, John preened. He didn't tend to flaunt his qualifications (around here, they weren't even all that impressive) but the way this guy so obviously thought he'd been palmed off with the White House idiot grated on John's competitive edge.

"From where?" he almost squeaked.

"Undergrad was Berkeley. Post grad was Harvard." He smiled as innocently as he could. "And where did you go, Dr McKay?"

"I-." McKay's mouth opened and closed. "Just shut up and listen," he snapped.

John leaned back in his chair and caught Larry grinning at him. He winked back. Oh yeah, Josh had been right, this really was fun.

/End


	2. The Best Defence Is An Eight Foot Giant

It was on the way back from Senior Staff that John noticed the cup of coffee sitting on the table outside his office. It was still hot, little wisps of white steam escaping through the air holes in the lid.

“Sweet,” he said, picking it up.

The move Rodney used to knock his hand away from his mouth would have been illegal in most football games.

“Hey!” John snapped, putting the cup back down and licking hot coffee off of his fingers.

“Are you crazy?” Rodney hissed, grabbing John’s hand and jerking it away from his mouth. “You’ve no idea who left that there; it could be poisoned.”

John put on his thoughtful face, hoping that if he looked like he was taking Rodney seriously, this could be over quicker. “Yeah,” he drawled, “I guess it could.” He paused. He was going to leave it there but his hand _really_ smarted. “Assuming someone decided to brave a dozen guards with really big guns so they could deliver a poisoned cup of coffee to a speechwriter.”

Rodney’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “You’re not a speechwriter, you’re the deputy communications director,” he finally came out with, which judging by the look on his face was not actually his point at all. He glared at John and stalked off, taking the coffee with him.

John looked helplessly at C.J. and Toby who’d been walking with them but had stopped several steps away when Rodney apparently went crazy. Toby rolled his eyes and went on his way; C.J. grinned at him brightly and waved over her shoulder before disappearing into her office.

John debated for a moment, before sighing and heading away from his office, following the corridor towards Rodney’s instead. In the eight months they’d been together, he’d learned to let Rodney’s dramatics slide, but John was curious about what could make Rodney voluntarily spill coffee; something he normally put on the same level as the Constitution on his list of Things That Should Not Be Destroyed.

Rodney was obviously in his office, John could hear the furious clack of laptop keys from out in the corridor and Laura, just coming out as John reach the door, mimed strangulation at him as she passed.

“Hey, Rodney,” John said, stepping into the office and shutting the door behind him. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

Rodney continued typing for a minute, hitting the keys so furiously that John considered staging an intervention. With a final, angry stroke, Rodney got up, pushed John down onto the desk and glared at him. “Do you have any idea how many death threats you got this year?” he demanded.

Internally, John sighed. Every year, the secret service produced a report detailing why they’d been useful that year. And every year someone leaked the contents. “Forty?” he hazarded.

“Oh.” Rodney looked suddenly deflated. “You already know?”

“Lucky guess,” John promised him, swinging his legs and trying to look nonchalant and unthreatened. “Last year it was forty-one; I must be getting more popular.”

Rodney’s glare didn’t relax, if anything it got more fixed.

“Hey,” John said, leaning forward and touching Rodney’s arm. “Josh gets that many a month; they’re not serious.”

Rodney huffed. He’d been looking tired lately and John wanted to sit him down and kiss away the shadows and lines that hadn’t been there before they made him take this job. But they didn’t do that at work so he contented himself with sliding his hand down Rodney’s arm and squeezing his wrist.

“Seriously, Rodney, there’s nothing to worry about. If they thought I was in any danger they’d give me protection. That’s what they do.”

At that and unexpectedly Rodney’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” he said, sounding excited and already reaching for his desk phone. “You should get a bodyguard.”

Just as quickly, John leaned across the desk and grabbed Rodney’s hand, bringing it back from the phone. “We have Lorne and the gang,” John said, waving his hand in the vague direction of the security checkpoint where Marines stood guard all day and night.

“Oh good.” Rodney rolled his eyes. “Lorne. As long as no one tries to shoot you above shoulder height, he’ll be very helpful. Honestly, shouldn’t bodyguards be eight-foot hulks?”

“Lorne’s great, Rodney,” John promised, hopping down from the desk. “Now, I’ve got a speech to write. See you later, okay?”

“Hmm,” Rodney said.

John reached the door, but stopped, turned back. Rodney was bent low over whatever he was working on – after the small incident with the nuclear weapons and Congressman Cowen John was no longer allowed near policy until it was written and signed off on – and as John watched, an extra frown line popped up between Rodney’s eyes and his mouth quirked into a crooked, unhappy line.

John crossed back to Rodney and ducked down, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you for lunch,” he said.

Rodney smiled slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

*

It was nearing lunch time when John heard footsteps in his doorway. Hoping it was either Rodney come to demand feeding or Bonnie with more work for him to do – anything really, which wasn’t the speech he was trying and failing to write – John looked up.

And up. He felt like one of those penguins who fall over backwards looking up at airplanes.

The guy in his doorway had practically _become_ his doorway. The top of his dreadlocked head was maybe an inch short of brushing the top of the frame and his folded arms blocked out all light from the corridor behind.

“Uh, hi?” John said, standing up. John was about six foot and this guy towered over him. John briefly wondered what he’d look like next to Leo or the President.

“Dex,” The guy said.

“I’m sorry?”

“The name’s Ronon Dex. Your new security.”

John frowned at him. He did _look_ like a bodyguard, just, John’s body wasn’t all that in need of guarding. Then: “Oh,” he said, “I’m John. You’re probably looking for Josh; he’s down the hall.”

Ronon uncrossed his arms long enough to look at something written on his hand. “John Sheppard?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Then I’m here for you.”

A horrible suspicion crossed John’s mind. A really horrible one. “Did Dr McKay ask you to come here?” he asked, mentally preparing himself for just how humiliating this could get.

Ronon shrugged. “I just go where I’m told. Heard you’d got some threats.”

John groaned. Oh yeah, this was Rodney’s work alright. “Come with me,” he told Ronon. The guy lumbered to attention immediately behind John and John couldn’t help feeling kind of pleased about that. Pissed at Rodney but still kind of pleased.

“Rodney,” John yelled when he reached the outer offices. Rodney’s minions looked up, took in John and his hairy new friend and all looked away quickly, clearly sniggering behind their hands. John hated everybody. “Rodney!”

Rodney appeared in his office doorway, he’d lost his jacket and had his shirt sleeves rolled up, John took at brief moment to be turned on before reverting back to pissed. Rodney meanwhile had spotted Ronon and beamed. “Oh good,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “That’s much better.”

John pointed silently at Rodney’s office and followed him back inside. Ronon of course came too.

“Rodney,” John said through gritted teeth. “I told you everything was fine.”

Rodney nodded happily. “It is now,” he agreed.

John smacked his head back against the wall. “Listen,” he sighed. “I cannot have my own bodyguard just because my boyfriend is an over protective worrywart.”

“Worrywart?” Rodney mimicked. “No wonder the mothers of America like you, you speak their language.”

“My mom likes him,” Ronon rumbled, merely raising an eyebrow and looking depressingly unthreatened when John turned to glare at him.

“Thank you,” Rodney said, looking pleased. He turned back to John. “And it’s not just me; the President agreed.”

John sighed again - at this rate he was going to run out of oxygen. “That’s because the President likes you, Rodney, not because he thinks I’m in any danger.” It was true, President Bartlet had taken to Rodney the way he never really took to new people, though God knew why. He seemed to find it amusing when Rodney corrected his math on a regular basis and informed him that an Nobel in Economics wasn’t a _real_ Nobel.

Rodney just looked at him. It was kind of look that said _let the man mountain follow you around or I will never give you another blow job_. John closed his eyes, utterly defeated. His only hope was that this would be one of the whims that Rodney got over quickly, rather than the time he decided C.J. had a crush on him and spent the next three weeks alternately hiding from her and trying to convince the Post to bring Danny Concannon back from abroad.

“Fine,” John said. He thumped his head back against the door (again). It hurt (again). “Fine. As long as you realise you’re robbing me of my street-cred.”

“ _Please_ ,” Rodney scoffed. “You’re a queer English major with stupid hair and complete boxsets of Buffy, Battlestar Galactica and Dr. Who; you have no street cred.”

“English _and_ PoliSci,” John grumbled under his breath. He turned to glare at Ronon. “Come on then, let’s get this over with.”

It might have been John’s imagination, but he was certain that, as they left, he saw Rodney smile the smile of a man who was truly content with his life. Bastard.

Back at John’s office, Ronon loitered outside as though actually considering taking up position there.

“Oh, no,” John snapped, tamping down on the urge to wave his hands at Ronon the same way he would a stray dog or a slow-moving pigeon. “Not in the corridor.”

Obediently, Ronon lumbered inside and slouched down on John’s sofa. John thought he might possibly be smirking.

“So,” John said when he’d sat back at his desk and brought up the speech he was writing for the President to give in front of the Young Democrats of America next week; it was just as blank as it had been before his trip to Rodney’s side of the building. It was at about this point, with nothing written and no idea what to say, that the procrastination skills he’d learned in college really came into their own. “What about that Bears game, huh?”

Ronon looked up, tipped his head a little, and went back to contemplating his nails.

“Wow,” John murmured to himself, “And people say I’m quiet.”

“People say that?” Ronon rumbled. This time, there was no doubt that Ronon was mocking him.

John sighed. He missed Lorne. “I miss Lorne,” he said. “He was into football.”

Another silence. Then: “I surf.”

John had almost been on the brink of writing a word. He sat up quickly. “Yeah?” he said. “Tell me more.”

/End

Uh. Yeah.


End file.
